


Be My Friend, Hold Me, Wrap Me Up.

by JellyBump



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Basically all the peeps, Betrayal, Car Accident, Domestic Violence, F/F, F/M, Family Fluff, Howard is a bad dad, Humour, Kinda, M/M, Major AU, SHIELD is awesome, Sarcasm, Self-Esteem Issues, Tony Has Issues, Tony gets adopted!, Tony will get some, Violent, bad techno speak, changed timelines, crappy parenting, even I don't know, everything 10 years later, hell knows who, too little time, too many tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JellyBump/pseuds/JellyBump
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title from Sia, Breathe Me.<br/>An AU in a universe where Howard was absent, he gots a new daddy, SHIELD love him, sabotage is in the air, there is a monkey plushie, a tinfoil hat and he has a soft nougat centre.<br/>Maybe not nougat. But squishy (and protected by a hard candy shell).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And.....! You may begin.

Chapter 1

Anthony Stark – “Call me Tony,” sleazy, brittle grin already held up like a shield – is born on May 29th 1980, to a Maria and Howard Stark.

As Maria screams in labour, putting her blood, sweat and tears into delivering her perfect baby boy, she calls for her husband. She doesn't expect an answer, and she doesn't get one.

As his son emits his first of many cries into the big wide world, Howard is above the Antarctic preparing to land at camp. He can't remember how many times he's tried this (and that's a lie, he remembers every single time, the ever-growing number glares at him in disapproval each time his frantic search turns up nothing), how many times he's tried to recalibrate his systems to pick up the highly unique, and incredibly difficult to find gamma signal that the Tesseract seems to mock him with. He can feel it, there's something different this time. He raises a glass of whisky to his mouth, ignores his shaking hand, ignores how he knows deep in his alcohol-rotten gut that he's not going to find the nations beloved Captain America, he's not going to find his friend, his best friend. The best man he's ever known -   
He tosses the whisky back, relishing the burn, years past where he's supposed to give a grimace.

-TS-TC-TS-TC-

Tony never learns how to crawl. No, seriously. He rolls around until he's two, and then he blinks his doe eyes up at his mother – she's walking past him, cigarette in one hand, wine glass in the other – she gives him an absent smile, she takes her eyes off him for a split second just to settle down on her favourite, ugly lace-trimmed chair, and Maria glances back up only to freeze as the toddler lives up to the name; and toddles over to her. His legs as shaky as a new-born lamb's, but with the strength of determination he makes it a gigantic five steps before he falls.  
And all the while, her baby, her boy stares up, up, up at her, open and curious, not understanding the magnitude of what he's done.  
Her smoke lays forgotten in its tray, the glass stands alone as she rushes to her child, cooing and smiling like she hasn't in years.  
A couple of months later the novelty wears off as he streams around the house, his legs barely able to keep up with him – he falls down stairs, runs into doors and tries to climb into the goddamn oven. She hires a nanny.  
A week later she hires two more.  
Whenever she tries to bring him up with Howard, she gets vague smiles that never really reach his eyes. She can't help the growing frustration that builds up slowly but surely, as she watches the man she loves humour her. This is his child. His child. That night at dinner, the one time she knows she has an actual, definite chance at getting Howard actually out of his lab and with them as a family she brings it up.  
She waits, chin resting on one hand, watches as he brings the spoon up towards him and just as he puts it in his mouth – she begins her subtle, but pointed attack.  
“He ran into the refrigerator today. Again,” her tone is nonchalant, very different to the undignified squawking of earlier.  
“Did you take him to the Doctor?” he replies, not missing a beat. She can't say why this riles her up further – maybe it's the way he's brought his work to the table again, hasn't noticed his dinner down his shirt, his unkempt appearance, the golden liquid in his tumbler-  
“I did.” short and sharp.  
“Hmmmm.”  
Maria stifles a growl, “Well?”  
“Well what?”  
He hasn't looked at her once, just the steady slurp off the spoon, the scritch scritch of the pencil -   
She gives up on even pretending to eat her soup, just stirring it around as it was, and the small clunk of the metal hitting the china resounds in the large dining room, but is overshadowed by her quiet deadly tone - “Are you going to even ask if he's okay?If he really hurt himself? Bruises? Nicks, cuts?” and he finally, finally looks up.  
“You would've told me already if there was.”  
Maria looks at the man she loves. She takes in his unimpressed face, his ridiculous, endearing moustache, the lines of guilt and exhaustion on his face – she can't stand him.  
She stands up so suddenly the wooden chair topples behind her, throwing the napkin that was on her lap on the table, she doesn't look back but she can't help the, “Fuck you Howard, Fuck you.” That rolls off the tongue.

Neither person brings it up again, and for what feels like an eternity there's a tense atmosphere over the place, clinging like static. Maria keeps up the smiles for Tony, she practically bows to his every whim – colouring, cars, tv, hide and seek – but something must have finally sunk in because while it's obvious to anyone who really knows Howard (an ever shrinking list) he starts making, well. He starts making an effort. In a really backwards-esque Stark way.  
Maria is overjoyed.  
It's small at first, she'll come back from shopping and find Howard by the fireplace writing on his pad, frowning like it's personally offended him – and lo and behold, their Tony will be round his feet dismantling his cars. She leaves them to it.  
It gets a little better each day. A casual “Good boy,” and the odd “Can you say dada?” because he might be three now, but she has a sneaking suspicion that Tony won't start talking until he wants to, and when he does he'll steam roll through it and leave them all in his wake. Again.  
And it's during one of these better days, one of the best yet, that Howard gets the call.  
A maid comes bustling in, and with a simple, “Mr Stark, it's SHIELD calling.” It all collapses.

Maria doesn't notice at first, drinking has always been a part of Howard and so has his work. They start getting regular visitors at lunch, she doesn't mind, the more the merrier, except she can't be present for the conversation, so she starts taking that meal in her study with Tony – she even let's it go when Fury Sr. and a barely twenty Callon? Coulson? Usher her off and away from her own patio when she's having breakfast; but when it's three o'clock in the morning, and she feels Howard slink out of bad to answer the muffled maid at their bedroom door proclaiming that SHIELD is at the door again, well. A woman can only take so much.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? WHY WON'T YOU JUST TELL ME?” Her voice is hoarse, but that won't stop her now.  
They're in one of their many sitting rooms, half for the privacy and half well, who knows.  
“They think they might be on to something Maria – but, they need me. There's a part of the Antarctic, more to the south, it's being steadily-”  
She whimpers, and leans against the wall – it's him, it's always about Him.  
She forces out what she says next, she knows it's going to hurt him but it needs to be said.  
“Steve is dead, Howard,” he sucks in a violent breath, she can't look at him, “You have a family here, with you, a son...” she trails off, she knows the words are supposed to sound more imploring, but they just sound worn and tired. So, so tired.  
She turns her a head, a massive effort, and stares into his glazed eyes. It frightens her because this figure striding towards her, isn't her husband, this is a shell of misplaced grief, genius and poison – the man that strikes her face so hard it hits the wall behind her, is a stranger.  
The silence that falls afterwards is deafening, the click of the door as Howard leaves is too loud, and his mother's sobs make his little heart ache. This is Tony Stark's first memory (he's hiding under the coffee table, wearing a tinfoil hat and a stuffed monkey plushie). The second is the strong sense of resolve he felt as he crawled out from the table. He'd make daddy happy.

Tony tries to split his time evenly, running between mummy and daddy, gives them wide smiles and toothy grins. He hugs Maria's knees, and watches Howard, as he builds, creates, constructs – he ignores the suits that are sometimes there (although he likes Phil, Phil is gentle and quiet), and they ignore him; he's four and mute, they don't have to worry about him.  
He's four when he builds his first circuit board and presents it to a speechless Howard.  
He's four when he speaks for the first time, standing in between a shocked, tear stained mummy – his tiny hands raised in defence - and a drunken startled – violent, so damn violent – daddy, “H'wrd no!”  
(And for all the good it's worth Maria was right, in a matter of days his forming fractures of sentences, then speeches and lectures and then he's talking so fast he makes their heads spin.)  
After that, Howard distances himself, ashamed perhaps, embarrassed most likely – and Tony doesn't know what to do, the only time he looks at him is when he makes the tangled, thrown away parts into something useful, something that sparks and lights. He doesn't know what to do with mummy, so he pulls away from her, he's run out of places to hide her glass of 'juice' – he's not an idiot, he knows everything's wrong, he knows they're hurting but he can't help, he can't do anything.

He's five when he starts working on an engine. He's in his room, dirt under his nails, his hair unruly – he doesn't care what Bertha says, he doesn't need his hair brushed to play, nobody cares anyway – when the door opens. He jumps when he realises it's his father's slippers he can see out of the corner of his eye, and he squints at the window realising that there's weak morning light filtering through the blinds. He hears the muffled footsteps as they approach and then pause, he looks up in anticipation to see his dad look at what he's building. Inventing. Just like him!  
He can't help how his tiny heart races, how his small hands sweat, and he can't help how the fledgling hope in his chest curls up in flames as Howard gives him an absent smile, and a ruffle of the hair.  
“It's not the best attempt in the world, but you did try.”  
He doesn't cry but he doesn't want to touch the engine again, that is until -   
A man (Phil, it's been a little while but the name's stuck) steps half in, he doesn't even look at Tony, although he knows the older man can see him, he's not sure how but he just knows, “Fury's waiting, Obadiah has been notified in the change of plan and Dr Sillin requires a conference before he'll even consider section B6 of the final test.”  
He ignores his father's response to focus all the better on Phil's appearance, all he can see is the kind face that hasn't changed and the suit that stays the same.  
“Well? Are you coming?” Howard asks bemused, as he steps out Tony's room.  
“I'll be right along Mr Stark, I just need to check the inside premises, standard procedure when a level five is going down.”  
And for a minute, as Howard walks away, it looks like that's what Coulson's going to do; but instead, after looking back and listening to the retreating steps, he takes a step further into the room. And another and another, until he's next to the now aborted engine, and crouches. He stares at the machinery, touches this and that, ignoring the grease gathering on his fingertips, and asks curiously, “Did you make this?”  
He doesn't look at Tony as he says it, and the boy is grateful for it because he's suddenly nervous as to what this man will say.   
“Yes sir.” the answer is quiet.  
Still inspecting it with intent eyes and eager hands, “By yourself?”  
“...Yes sir.”   
Tony doesn't expect the look that's turned his way – the man's smile is slight, but his eyes exude a kind of warmth that he barely remembers getting from his mum.  
And when the other man says in a slightly awed voice, “This is amazing.” He blushes to the roots of his hair, and holds onto the warm, comforting feeling that settles inside. He can't help but be bashful, this man has no reason to lie so he must be telling him the truth – and that's, it makes Tony happy, and proud.

He completes the engine when he's six, it's just a prototype but it's self-sustaining and he thrums with excitement. He hides it under his bed and it sits there for weeks, he finds an old sheet to cover it with and observes as it gathers dust. He knows he should probably have run straight to his father, might have even gotten a half hearted hug for his troubles but he's waiting for someone else.  
As the weeks pass his excitement and joy at his creation turns to doubt – he takes to playing at the front of the house (and Bertha, his only nanny now, looks at him with sad eyes, like she knows what he's waiting for, which she can't, because she doesn't know anything), springing up to the window every time a car pulls up amongst the gravel. He plays in the gardens that lazily sprawl out beyond him, almost overwhelmed at his numerous choices – he could hide in the apple tree, but he broke his arm the last time he did, the bushes, well, there are so many shrubs to choose from...  
“Tony!” Bertha's voice rings out, “Bath time!” Gah. I don't think so.  
He runs for the shrubs, grass flying under his shoes, hopping and jumping around flowerbeds – the last time he fell on the petunias Carl had been so mad – dodging the grinning junior grounds-keeper.  
“You can't fight her forever Tony!” he doesn't dignify the young British man's amusement with a proper response, only deigning to blow him a raspberry as he continues pumping his legs, chuckles fading behind him.  
He makes it into the greenery, hiding like only a small child can, he ignores the pointed pokes of branches, skirts round the ant hill with a wrinkled nose and he hears it – the crunch of gravel, the slam of car doors and Fury's voice. He peers through the leaves, blowing his fringe out of his face in an impatient huff. From there he can see all of them – his mother standing next to his father, a sour, withdrawn expression on both their faces, Obadiah, Fury of course and-  
“PHIL!”  
He flies out of the bushes, fights the pull of the greenery snatching at his clothes, a spray of small stones flung into the air behind him – he ignores the startled adults, ranging from shocked eyes, to the greedy, to the calculating and he's there, he looks up only to find that Coulson is already down to his level, his lips quirked and eyes warm.   
“Nice to see you too, Tony.”  
“You have to see it,” he's gripping the man's tie, excited hands fiddling, yanking slightly, Coulson stumbles forward a bit-  
And he waits to see a hint of annoyance at knocking the man off-balance, but he just keeps on smiling his wonderful, barely there smile.  
“See what?”  
“Yes sweetheart – what is it you want us to see?”  
The sparkle in his eyes dims a little at that - he was waiting for him, if he'd wanted them to see he would have shown them ages ago -and Phil's smile falls a little at that (or is that at the raised eyebrow Fury is giving him?), like he's only just realised that his colleagues are listening in, so he stretches his grin a bit wider, his eyes manic but that doesn't seem to help, if anything Phil's face falls faster like he's worried; and that won't do!  
“The engine! It's finished”  
“TONY! BATH, NOW!”   
He runs again then, leaving the titter of adults behind him – he'll show him later.

After his reluctant bath - “So help me god Tony, if you are not in that tub on the count of three, I will hide your socket wrench so thoroughly that neither heaven nor hell will be able to help you find it! One – two -” - he trudges his way through the many legions of corridors that he knows like the back of his hand, leaving faint damp footsteps, the odd drop of water sneaking down the nape of his neck making him shiver as it cools, and he trudges all the way to his father's den. He makes himself comfortable, settling down opposite the sturdy oak door, back against the wall. He chides himself for fidgeting, he can be patient. He can wait it out -  
Tony must have dozed off because the next he knows he's being carried, the subtle jump, jump with every step taken – he's soothed by the gentle rhythm, rocked like he's back in his cradle and as he's set down on his bed, he grabs hold of the dark blue tie swaying in front of him.  
“Phil,” he says sleepily, eyes easing close again.  
“Yes Tony?” his voice is soft, and his moves are efficient but not unkind as he proceeds to tuck the youngster into bed.  
“'ngine's und'r bed.”  
He feels the light on his face from the bulb shining from the hall outside his open door, as Coulson moves away – the scrape on the hardwood floor as he pulls out the engine from the bed – a muffled choking sound, as he tries not to cough from the colony of dust bunnies that have taken residence on the protective cloth covering – he hears him exhale suddenly, “Jesus Tony, this is, this is...”  
He's so damn proud.

(Phil lugs the engine to Howards' study, Maria's hand comes up to her mouth in shock, astounded at what her little darling built. Howard looks on it with a critical gaze, his professional eye tracing every minute detail looking for flaws. The best he can come up with are a few health and safety issues.  
“Are you kidding me man?” Fury's unimpressed voice, “I already trust this more than half the ideas you've already told me you've got lined up.”  
And while Phil whole-heartedly agrees, it's clearly the wrong thing to say as Howard's mouth thins. When Coulson looks back on this, he'll wonder if this when the small seed of resentment was planted; when he knows he's helped create the one that can usurp him – he'll be bigger, and smarter -  
They bicker and talk, Fury a little too invested in talking about the young Stark's future, for the love of God, he's a child, capable of great things already? Yes. But a child all the same, let him have his time – but Howard isn't any better either talking about proper workshop tutorials with a slightly mocking tone, Maria just walks away, face giving nothing as she heads out the door.  
And Coulson? Well, he stands silent and ignored, and he's happy with that because otherwise he may have missed the unsettling look on Obadiah's face – greedy and smug, like he's just been given a puppy for Christmas and been granted three wishes; but mostly he stands there with a misplaced sense of pride.)

There are a lot of things a child can understand, and there are a lot they can't.  
Death is one of those such things.  
On December 17th 1991, Howard, Maria and Anthony Stark are heading home from Stark Industries annual expo. The highway is clear, they're back on country roads now, out and away from Los Angeles, where the event was held, when the car collides with an immovable object.  
It's nothing as cool as in the movies, but it is infinitely more devastating.  
The car flips, and Tony would scream if the seatbelt hadn't jerked so suddenly on his chest that it knocked the air right out of him. He's choking, gasping for breath as he's viciously jolted his legs flinging anywhere gravity dictates, his arms wrenched, feeling like they're gonna pop out their sockets, he hears a grinding in his neck as his head lolls – it bangs against the car door, and there's a warm liquid sliding down his forehead, blinding him in one eye. Not that it matters because his eyes can't focus anyway but oh, his ears? His ears take in everything.  
The screech of metal grinding, and tearing itself apart – something that would keep them safe on the highway, but falls apart like the shoddy European car that it is here – his father's short startled shout, and his mother. His mother screams. She shrieks, an unholy noise of pain and terror, a pure animal sound that somewhere in the back of his brain will haunt his nightmares for the rest of his  
life – it's a cry of fear for herself, for her husband and for her son.  
He hears the sick thud of her head hitting the roof of the car, and then her body flying, smashing through the wind shield with all the hesitation a lump of butter has before a hot knife. That is the last thing Anthony stark hears before he blacks out.


	2. And we grow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bah. Shorter than I wanted, but necessary.  
> There could be triggers in here, just saying...but y'know that's what the tags are for.  
> And thank you for the kudos', the comments and the bookmarks! I love and appreciate every one I get.

Chapter 2

Tony blinks awake slowly, his eyesight fuzzy and a muted pounding in the base of his skull. With every opening of his eyes, he sees the blinding white of the ceiling, the walls, the curtain – the strong smell of industrial cleaners hitting his nose – the beeping of machines, his heartbeat in steady boop boop boops – and another sound, a soft sssshhhhh in time with the rise and fall of his chest- a tube, a tube down his throat and he's coughing, (the shatter of glass) he can't breathe, (the wail of metal) he can't breath, (his mother-!) ohgodhecan'tbreathe-!

“Mr Stark?” he's distantly aware of the clacking of shoes on the floor towards him, “Mr Stark-!” The female voice comes closer but Tony doesn't care. The tightness in his chest just won't go away, his fingers scramble at his loose hospital gown, as if it's responsible for ever-shrinking airways -

“-hold him-”

Hands like shackles are on his wrists, and he's scared.

“-remove the tube-”

He's so scared.

“-he's....panic...accident...notify-”

He just wants his mum.

He blacks out.

-TS-TC-TS-TC-

He shoots up, lungs heaving in remembrance – he takes it all in, he's still in the hospital room, there's still that accusing sound of the heart monitor, and his throat is sore. More than sore, he rubs at it gingerly, trying to ignore the phantom feeling of the tube still being there – how they'd tried to pull it out as slowly as possible despite his constant struggling, his jerky limbs, his heaving lungs not making their job any easier -  
His mum. His mum is dead.

He hears the clack of shoes in the corridor that lies just outside his room, and he has a horrible moment of deja vu, which only intensifies further when that same voice says, “Mr Stark?” in that very same tone.

He looks up at her, she's older then he expected, her plain blue scrubs making him want to vomit. He doesn't like blue. Why doesn't he like blue?

The nurse looks at him, clearly having asked a question, and he waits patiently for her to repeat it. He's not going anywhere, he has nowhere to go.  
Because even Howard-

“-experiencing any dizziness, headaches, nausea, shooting pains or anything unusual?” her tone is gentle but it doesn't hide the fact that she clearly has other patients she needs to attend to – not just a poor orphaned kid.

He gives a small shake of his head, goes to turn away – she grabs his chin, her grip leading rather than forceful.

“Stare straight up at me.”

She shines a penlight in his eyes, and it hurts he guesses but his mind is far and away, completely blank. Just taking everything in, processing. It was all very...mechanical.

Click.

He blinked rapidly in an effort to remove the blurs from his vision.

The hand on his face exerting a small amount of pressure, as she firmly turns his head this way and that, asking the odd, “How does this feel?” and when he doesn't respond, a simple yes/no question of “Does it hurt?”.

She leaves soon after she makes some notes on his clipboard, checks his vitals, the clacks just as loud as when she arrived.  
Tony's eyes begin to droop, and he can feel sleep calling him, lapping at his fingers like a friendly dog, but he doesn't give in. He fights against it, because what if the next time he closes his eyes, he doesn't get to open them again?

His limbs are heavy and weigh like lead beside him, he can barely feel his legs as numb as they are, his eyes like slits, and his mouth like a stone -  
The door creaks, and Tony doesn't so much as twitch.

He hears the soft squeak of trainers across the lino floor – the feet travel towards him, and he tries to open his eyes but everything is just so heavy. His breathing comes faster, and he flashes to earlier once again, what was it the doctor had said? Panic attack? He hopes this isn't going to become a regular thing as he wheezes.

This causes the intruder to suddenly step close, he can feel the heat coming off them – his mind is wearing at the edges slightly – and there's a thumb, gently prying his eyelid up, and before he can see their face there's a penlight in his – and if he never sees a penlight after this it'll be too soon, because dear God, who invented those monstrosities – and then, “Shit, you were supposed to be out by now-”

The warmth is gone but the presence is not. Something clatters to floor, fingers clumsy and his mind is fuzzy he wants to sleep - the heart monitor briefly stops and then starts again, wires are taken away from his body, and he's pulled like a rag doll – and this is not the time for flashbacks, words like PTSD and therapy swimming in his head like they're half-remembered - 

He's stripped of his hospital gown, his body shivering in reflex to the sudden temperature change, and is pushed, pulled, shoved (and a whimper escapes on that last one, because he is in pain, dammit) into clothes – he can feel his fingers and his knees and his feet – and is hoisted on to the man's back, looking like a very sad piggyback ride. 

The hood on his face obscures what little of his vision he has access to but what he can see and hear is enough to make him feel desperately sick. And scared. Maybe that's just something he should get used to.

He sees the feet of chairs and people go by, the sway of movement as his familiar – man? Man – wannabe (succeeding) kidnapper turns corners, and dodges people. Their pace is unhurried, like they could be a father and son, on their way out from visiting grandma and he wants to shout and sob; because a strange man is taking him away, and all he can do is silently cry as he's carried away.

He concentrates on staying awake, because if he gives in to this emotional exhaustion he will gladly fall under, and he'll never want to resurface again -

The man's pace picks up, abruptly stops and a short while a soft ping sounds and Tony knows they're stepping into an elevator. Tony's face smooshes painfully into the man's back as he takes a step back -

“Sorry about that, mate.”

His heart stutters as he realises that's Jarvis, and then it thunders back into action, bringing with it renewed strength. His foot twitches, his knee flexes, and he awkwardly swings his leg, trying to get some momentum, or just trying, trying, trying – he cries out a little in shock as his trainer covered foot kicks out sharply and connects -

An expletive, and he can see the junior grounds keeper, rubbing at a red mark on his arm, dirt under his nails still – and the mine rushes into the metal box, Tony can hear him viciously jab at one of the buttons, and without that other arm holding him up he can feel the room he has to sway, if he just leant -

And he is leaning, he can see around the man's thick arm, the elevator doors shutting, and Jarvis is staring at him blankly, as if he doesn't quite know what he's seeing, focusing on. Then there's a muted look of horror as he tries to run back to the elevator, but he took too long, stupefied by the unexpected sight and all the young boy can get out before the doors close he's a strangled, “Jaaaveee.”

His kidnapper resettles his arm, hitches him up his back from where he's slid down. He doesn't really seem aware of Tony other than that he's cargo, something to be delivered – and there's no doubt in the young Stark's mind that this man is not responsible for this master-plan he's acting out, since if he had been able to get around security himself he would have also had the smarts to realise he probably should have carried the colt limbed child bridal style, with his face turned inwards so no one could recognise him -

He has enough presence of mind to be insulted that this was the brute that was chosen to extract him. The man's a moron. And he smells. Childish, but true.

His head rolls, his face grinding in to the the puffed up coat beneath him – he's pretty sure he can smell cigars, which is a bit weird; this man doesn't look like he can afford to breathe on cigars, let alone buy and smoke them.

He can see the faint glowing numbers at the top of the stainless steel doors, he doesn't know what they're reading but he does know that every floor they pass is taking him further to an even more uncertain future - 

The elevator stops, and so does the man's litany of “Shit, shit, shit,” - he steps out and Tony is suddenly, pathetically glad for the hoodie he's wearing because the car park is freezing.

The man has taking to lightly jogging, making Tony head butt him with every step – the only thing he can hear is the unfit man gasping for air.

“Mr Barrett?”

The voice is shocking in the quiet, echoing off tarmac floors and concrete walls.

“Put the child down.” 

Tony didn't realise he was crying until he felt it collect at the end of his nose, his chest is heavy as he truly relaxes, tension seeping it out as he recognises that calm, neutral – with a razor edge at the moment – voice. It doesn't matter what happens next because this is Phil, he knows he won't be leaving to God knows where, Phil will take care of him.

The sudden relief that floods his veins makes resisting the drug still in them almost impossible. He's vaguely aware of the body beneath his going rigid, the buzz of electric in the air and some weird free-falling that he'll never enjoy, and especially so soon after that.

He's picked up soon after that – surrounded by the familiar smell and strong arms of Phil.

“Tony?”

And it's like he's six again, because he's clinging to the older man's tie, because he needs to know that when he closes his eyes Phil will be there -

“Tony?-”

he's never heard him so frantic before -

“Tony! Open your eyes-”

-TS-TC-TS-TC-

Three months later Phil Coulson adopts him.

After The Car Park Incident – and to this day, Fury refuses to refer to it in any other way – Tony wouldn't go near anyone else, except for the SHIELD agent and Jarvis.

He talks in quiet whispers, and immediately falls silent if anyone approaches. Every new person is assessed by eyes that are far too old for the body they're in, they measure the threat, the likelihood for it. He becomes as good at reading people as he is good at dismantling and creating equations. Coulson stands guard over him from a distance, never leaving him more than necessary until he knows he won't have a panic attack the minute he's out of sight. Jarvis is with him 24/7, a friend, protector and brother. He's there for the hysteria that occasionally swallows the young lad up, when he worries if he's overstaying his welcome, if Coulson – Dad, a part of his mind eagerly whispers – is gonna get fed up with a kid who's always the smartest guy in the room, is always moving around like he has ADHD, can't even speak to anyone; who'd want a kid like that? Who'd take that on willingly?

But, when the young boy has those days, the bad, truly awful ones where he can't stand red, can't stand blue, the noises, afraid if so much as looks wrong he'll be shunned, the days that end in screaming night terrors – Coulson is there, sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking back his sweat-matted hair, and saying “I'm here, you're okay, it's okay.”

Coulson joined SHIELD at the tender age of 22, recruited by Nick Fury himself. His past is classified (deleted), but he has no family, no friends and he's happy that he has this job. He can do this. He can be the pencil pusher, the executer, the analyst, the fresh angle and the intelligence when other people are lacking. He can think outside of the box, and six months after he's hired he's Fury's right hand, and the one eyed man outright refuses to work with anyone else, and if that's not a testament to how good he is at, well, everything, then he doesn't know what is.

In all his vast imaginings and reasoning’s, he never thought he would be filling as dad at 29. And not a dad to just anyone, but to the most wonderful and heart breaking child he has ever had the fortune to run into. He dreads the day when Tony realises how firmly he's wrapped around his little finger.

The years pass without thought or mercy, and Tony talks again. He slowly eases back into his skin. Sometimes his smiles are too wide, his eyes suspicious, and his voice too loud but every agent has his way of coping, and if this is Tony's? Then nobody begrudges him.  
He learns how to put his claws away – metaphorical (mostly) – and he laughs. He lives.

He becomes a 'real, live boy' as he would put it; he gets a crush on Maria, and her eyes crinkle as she indulges the 15 year old with her attention when she can, endeared all the more by his stammering and slight flush. It passes quickly when he sees Hawkeye – and Maria often teases him about her poor broken heart, and she might only be a few years younger than his dad (yes, his dad) but she's the best friend he could ask for outside of -

He works with the scientists in charge at research and development and puts them all to shame when he constructs and displays his ideas for hologram technology, The Hulk Wall (he's particular gleeful when he names their new firewall that, Coulson barely able to resist the upwards twitching of his lips at the vein in Director Fury's temple), and last and not least a helicarrier. That can become as close to invisible as is possible. When everyone leaves the meeting after that one, slightly shell shocked at how a teenage boy could come up with all of this, Fury steps up to him, a hand on his shoulder and a, “Son, how do you feel about MIT?”

He meets Pepper - “If you call me Virginia one more time Tony, you see this pen? Guess where it's going to end up. I. Dare. You.” - he likes her well enough but he doesn't miss her when he graduates in two years. He does miss Rhodes, but they keep in touch regularly and he's graduating soon any way - “Military obviously, Coulson.” “Coulson is my dad, I, am Tony. Are you defective or- ow!” - and he promised he'd see him there.

There are two facts that remain throughout;

A) They don't talk about Captain America.

B) Nobody tells Tony Howard is alive.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, this is gonna be a beast 0_0  
> Everything is kinda gonna take place 10 years later - so Tony is born may 29th 1980, not '70, Howard is born 1927, not 1917, world war II/capt. America sinking in 1953.... I basically wanted Tony to be younger when the whole New York battle goes down. For y'know, reasons.  
> And Iron Man 3? *makes whooshing motion over head* what Iron Man 3?  
> to warn, the pairing will probably be slash, if anyone has any ideas on who specifically, give us a bell cos I dunno tbh.  
> comment or kudos, much appreciated!


End file.
